


Glitter on your cheeks like a sparsam

by WeWalkADifferentPath



Series: This pride might just keep me warm [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Bisexual Derek Hale, Derek hates furniture shopping, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, I just love Derek being protective and Isaac being loved, IKEA, Idk what i'm doing, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Isaac Lahey, Pack Bonding, Pack Feels, Pride, and Stiles being lowkey exactly what the pack needs, if you too resent Ikea or are celebrating Pride month welcome aboard, there's still pieces of a lamp somewhere in the woods, yes the word you're reading is spartsam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 10:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeWalkADifferentPath/pseuds/WeWalkADifferentPath
Summary: “Damnit, Isaac, you worried me. What’s-“Oh.Oh.“Uhm. Yeah,” Isaac said.--Or, Derek hates Ikea, and Isaac is brave during Pride month.





	Glitter on your cheeks like a sparsam

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! So this is a fic I've done in honour of Pride month, and my first foray into writing for the Teen Wolf fandom (lord knows I've been creeping it long enough). 
> 
> Quick but important note: I am a certified Cis(tm) and as hard as I tried, I couldn't find a willing and available person to do a sensitivity read for me. So please feel encouraged to let me know how much of a dumbass I am in writing this subject (though if you can, maybe be a little gentle; I'm a giant sensitive baby despite my best intentions). 
> 
> Other than that, enjoy! Oh, and a sparsam is a type of light sold at Ikea, which you can see in this article of other ridiculously amazing Swedish Ikea names: http://flavorwire.com/225706/the-most-ridiculous-ikea-product-names-and-what-they-mean

\-- 

Derek sighed viciously, slamming the cupboard door closed as hard as he could without breaking it. 

“Fuck.”

He really didn’t want this. He really, really didn’t want to fucking do this today. But, he thought-- not without bitterness-- when did Derek Hale ever get what he wanted? Hell would sooner freeze over than make things easy for him.

Though. Hell probably _would_ freeze over on his watch, now that he thought about it. He needed better metaphors.

He made a reluctant mental note to ask Stiles about replacements for the idiom the next time that he saw him. The human was annoyingly talkative, and he’d probably spend an entire afternoon regaling Derek with the _origin-story of the metaphor_ , but at least he wouldn’t make fun of Derek for asking.

Not like those other people had.

The weather was annoying clear and warm, Derek noticed; it was as if the sun itself was taunting him. He tugged the blinds down harshly, covering the view of the preserve in a way that usually made him itch with claustrophobia. He’d be out of the house soon enough, though, much to his chagrin. So it didn’t matter.

He turned sharply at the sound of a raised heart rate somewhere in the house. Whose? One socked-foot hovered over the floorboard for a moment as he listened, breath held.

It was coming from the direction of Isaac’s room-- a fluttered thump-thump-thump at least a third faster than usual. 

Hm.

All of the beta’s had been awake now for at least a little while; their heartbeats and morning sighs always insured that Derek woke up with whoever was up first, so he always beat them downstairs (he was pretty low-prep, as far as mornings went, and he had no need for lingering in bed). It meant that he could have a few minutes to himself in his family kitchen before the swarm descended, and he could make breakfast for his pack. Which, yeah.

Providing was something he could do, even when he seemed to be getting everything else wrong.

Like this stupid _furniture_ thing that he’d been wrestling with since yesterday.

(Not literally wrestling, though he couldn’t say he hadn’t been tempted once or twice).

All Derek had wanted to do was to spruce the place up a bit. To make it… nicer, for his betas. More livable, more friendly. More like the house he remembered.

More like- more like before.

But the fucking universe had conspired against him, like it always did, because he was fucking Derek Hale and the universe hated him. Thus, his reluctance to return to that stupid store again this morning. Thus, the slammed cupboard door, which now that he thought about it was probably due to be replaced soon too. Shit.

Who named a furniture store _Ikea_ , anyways?

He made a note to ask Stiles about that, too.

When he’d gone yesterday, he’d went in armed with pretty much no preparation, Derek Hale style. He’d figured it couldn’t be that hard, you know? Go in, take a look around, find some stuff that he liked that didn’t smell too strongly of _new_ , and call it a day. He wouldn’t even need help taking anything to the car. Easy peasy, right?

Wrong.

No one had told him that the fucking store was a _maze_ (and he’d been trapped in real mazes before), or that apparently furniture had changed wildly since he’d last owned any, which was basically never, so. He’d spent the entire time wandering around the store, trying to be cordial with-- and eventually just baring his teeth at-- any ill-fated and persistently perky shop assistant that came into his orbit. He’d gotten tired of answering questions that he didn’t understand, and of the raised eyebrows and subtle chuckles and smell of _mocking_ that wafted off of anyone he asked a question to.

Like he should know, what a fucking armoire was.

Eventually he’d left with nothing but a single basic table lamp, which he’d only realized when he was halfway back to the preserve that he didn’t have LED lightbulbs for. That one he blamed on Greenpeace, the fuckers. Or at least he _had_ blamed them, loudly and to exactly no one, as he’d thrown the lamp out of the car and into the forest at 130km/hr.

He really, really hated Ikea.

  
But, he wanted to make his home a _home_ for his pack, so he was going back today. One more time alone, and then he’d bring Stiles if he had to. He wasn’t conceding to a day of smug glares and jokes about how _“even my name is less difficult to pronounce than this couch, Derek, did you see that? Even my name!”_ without giving it at least one more college try.

Didn’t mean that he had to like it.

He restarted his breakfast-making at the sound of Isaac sighing softly. It wasn’t entirely unusual for one of the pack’s heart rates to have a random spike-- they were all inexplicably fond of horror movies and pranks, after all (Derek thought that they had enough real-life horror and mishap without that nonsense, not that anyone ever asked him)-- so he let it go for now, resolving to ask Isaac about it later if it happened again.

The gentle but rapid muttering coming from Isaac’s bedroom was less normal, but he ignored that too. He just prayed that it wasn’t what it sounded like and that Isaac was smart enough to wait until no one was home to do… that. At 8am. At least Derek was the only person who seemed to be paying attention, judging by the faint sound of the probably-blaring music that was coming from what must be Boyd’s headphones, and the laughter floating in periodically from both Erica herself, and what sounded like her cellphone.

Derek hummed, grabbing the spatula from off of the ceramic spoon-rest that Boyd had made him for Christmas last year. He flipped absently at the giant pile of eggs, potato and bacon he was grilling, using the time to further simmer about stupid furniture and stupid sales associates and stupid lamps that took forever to clean out damp leaf piles because _who knew it would shatter into that many pieces?_ ( and showing incredible restraint in not smushing or beating the breakfast into goo, thank you very much).

A bedroom door opened. He smiled to himself.

It was true that Boyd was one of the best friends that Derek had ever had, and Erica was definitely one of the only people left alive who could make him laugh from his belly. But, he had to admit that he had always had a certain soft spot for Isaac. The kid had been so young and so deeply traumatized when Derek had met him, but he’d still had this spark and wit and joy inside of him that reminded Derek of some other people in his life, and made him feel foolishly, uncharacteristically warm.

Softening his posture, Derek called softly, “Good morning, Isaac.”

There was no reply. He could tell that Isaac was behind him, probably standing in the entrance to the kitchen and blearily rubbing at his eyes-- or worse, fixing his clothes. Derek didn’t smell _sex_ , though, only sleep, and the earthen, vaguely cinnamon smell of Isaac mixed with some variety of perfumed shampoo or something that he didn’t recognize.

And-

“Isaac?”

The hairs on the back of Derek’s neck bristled, his body automatically reacting to the sharp, citrus-vinegar smell of flight-or-flight preparation by engaging in its own. He gritted his teeth, gripping the spatula tighter in his palm.

What could he use as a weapon? The fire extinguisher was in the kitchen, but that was closer to the garbage bin, which was past Isaac.

The knife drawer was closer, but any enemy would see him reaching for that, and-

“Morning, ah. Good morning Derek.”

Derek’s head dropped forward. Isaac sounded fine, relaxed even. He let out a breath.

“Damnit, Isaac, you worried me. What’s-“

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Derek reached up behind him to switch the stove off.

(The food was probably done, anyways. If not, the betas could cook for themselves or keep the complaints to themselves). Because this was-

This was something. For sure, it was something.

“Uhm. Yeah,” Isaac said.

Derek flattened his lips. “This is…?”

Isaac reached a hand up to tug at the collar of his shirt. “It’s… me?” His voice was challengingly sarcastic, if a little quiet. He took a small, wary step back that seemed unconscious, but made no other move to leave or submit, and his eyes dared Derek to say something.

Goading. He was goading him. It was a tone of voice that Isaac had often used around other werewolves, other humans, but never to Derek; something about that set Derek’s instincts on edge more than anything.

He stared at him.

By _me_ , Isaac meant _different_. Derek felt a pang as he realized where the perfume smell was coming from. Isaac was wearing half of his usual morning clothes-- slightly too big jeans, and bare feet-- and his hair was still a little wild, like he’d just woken up. But instead of his usual worn-out red t-shirt, he was wearing a pale peach and pink top in a pattern that Cora that would have called _floral_. It looked a little retro, cropped just slightly too short to cover his whole stomach at the bottom. He was wearing one of his trademark scarves, this one in a deep forest green that contrasted with his eyes and looked unbearably soft.

And above that, he was wearing what was pretty clearly a fairly full-face of make-up; not obvious or tacky but _there_ , making his already long lashes a deeper black and dusting his eyelids in brown and gold and his cheeks in red.

Or maybe that was just part of the embarrassed (or angry?) blush that was creeping its way up Isaac’s neck and bruising his ears with a fiery red that looked almost painful. Shit.

“It’s… you.” Derek bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

Isaac nodded.

“And you’re-?”

“Non-binary.” Isaac spoke softly but assuredly, like he’d practiced this speech. Derek’s gut twisted. “I’m non-binary, which means that I’m not a guyor a girl, exactly. I’m just. Me, I guess. And sometimes I feel like parts of both, or neither, or something else entirely. Today is… a feminine day.”

Derek nodded slowly, processing. _Non-binary._

It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard the term before, per se, it was just that he’d never seemed to be entirely able to grasp that sort of thing; it slipped out from between his fingers like the names of cabinets or rug-types or video-players, or the dates of his pack’s birthdays or the names of their childhood pets.

He was hit with an aching jolt of guilt. “And why haven’t you told me this before?” he asked. “That you’re…” he paused, tasting the word slowly on his tongue. “Non-binary.”

Isaac shrugged. “I haven’t known long. Well, I knew, but I didn’t know there was a word for it, that it was a real _thing_. And,” he added, staring at his fingernails like they might sprout wings (or claws), “mostly I just feel like Isaac.  So. It didn’t matter.”

  
Right. Derek did his best to unclench his jaw.

He let out a breath between his teeth, reviewing. So Isaac hadn’t told him, but he hadn’t thought it mattered, and he mostly felt like Isaac. Okay. Yeah. Sure. He could deal with that-- he was an alpha, he’d handled kanimas and nagistunes and Peter, for fucks sake. He could handle this.

Coffee.

Yeah, they needed coffee. This was a coffee type of moment, wasn’t it? That’s what his mom always used to say that humans did; they didn’t run hot like werewolves, so if one of their own was sad they’d make them a hot drink to make them feel better. Because humans didn’t like to be cold and sad at the same time, he guessed. Fair enough. Isaac wasn’t human, but he’d grown up as one, so Derek figured the same sort of logic probably applied.

The fact that the caffeine would also make _Derek_ feel better wasn’t the point.

He stepped up toward the coffee maker and froze as Isaac flinched. _Shit._ Fuckedy fuck shit balls. “Isaac.”

“Sorry.”

Derek closed his eyes. “Don’t be.” He took a slow but deliberate step toward the coffee maker, arms out and palms up in a subtly submissive gesture that he knew that Isaac would pick up on.

With his eyes still closed, Derek could zero back in on the sound and smell of his beta. Soothing and familiar, minus the makeup. Though, now that he thought about it, he was pretty sure that he’d smelled traces of that clinging to Isaac before; he’d always chalked it up to girlfriends or something else that he definitely didn’t want to know about, but now he was wishing he’d asked about it sooner.

Dammit.

He fiddled with the coffee maker a little longer than necessary, giving Isaac some space to breathe and recover. _I’m okay with it,_ he tried to convey with his back muscles, like the wordless coward that he was. _I’m okay with_ you _, in whatever form you come, as long as you never have to feel scared like that again._

At least being a werewolf made it a little more likely that Isaac could interpret his acceptance from his body language (and smell), although it was still a bit more of a stretch than Derek was willing to bet on.

How could he always screw everything up so badly?

_Not the time for a pity party,_ Hale, the voice-that-sounded-suspiciously-like-Stiles-though-  he’d-never-admit-it said inside his head. _Make it better_ now.  Pity party later.  


“You want coffee?” he ventured. Because fuck it, he was still a Hale, and that was the best that he had.

Isaac’s smell took on an edge of _startled_.  “Oh, sure. Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

Derek poured him a cup, using _the_ mug that had the picture of the creepiest moose he’d ever seen, that they all still somehow fought over in the house because it kept the coffee just the right temperature. He held it out like a peace offering.

Up this close, it was easier to see that Isaac’s make-up job was pretty well-done, as far as Derek could deduce. His cheekbones looked sharper and higher, his eyes bigger, and the red that remained on his cheeks after the blush had faded brought some colour through his usually pale skin, making him look just slightly flushed. It wasn’t perfect, though; his eyeliner was smudged at the corners, and the shade he’d chosen for foundation was just slightly too dark to Derek’s keen eyes.

Still. It was a good look for him. So-- Derek told him that.

Isaac’s eyes widened as he took the mug. From the compliment, or the fact that Derek had willingly handed over his favourite mug, he couldn’t tell.

Milk.

Isaac took milk.

“So, uhm, you don’t have a problem with it?”

Derek shrugged as he reached for the soy milk, using the motion to close the fridge with his shoulder absently once his arm was out of the way. “Why would I?”

He turned back to see Isaac still looking like he was ready to itch out of his skin. His long, nimble fingers twitched up aimlessly toward his wrists, as if he intended to scratch at them but he never released his claws to reach them. A piece of his usually light, curling hair was plastered to his forehead and he was layered with the salty-sweet smell of nervous sweat; although, to his credit, he seemed to be controlling his emotional responses pretty well because all Derek could detect otherwise was a lingering remainder of the anticipatory flight-or-fight smell of his adrenaline, and that was already fading.

Drek reigned in the urge to take the few steps between them and wrap him in a hug; or at the least, to throw a soft sweater at him. He settled for shoving the soy milk into his hands.

Isaac looked at him through subtly narrowed eyes, then stared at the milk like it should be giving him answers. Was he interpreting Derek’s carefulness as lying? Derek took a moment to steady his breathing, allowing it to fall into a regular pattern; he willed Isaac to match it (he didn’t).

“I um, I’m not sure. I mean, it’s not like a thought you-“ Isaac gestured toward him with a hand, then let it drop. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“I only have a problem with things that put you, or any of the rest of the pack, in unnecessary danger. I’m just surprised that you didn’t tell me.”

That seemed to startle a chortle out of Isaac, despite Derek’s aim to keep his voice carefully neutral. It’s not like Derek wasn’t used to making people laugh when he didn’t mean to or even understand why, though, and this was Isaac, so he’d more than take it.

Isaac straightened his back and tilted his chin toward the window, a little of his usual spark making a gratifying reappearance in the quirk of an eyebrow. “Says you.”

Derek grimaced.

He didn’t bother to turn to look, or to wonder how Isaac had noticed the closed blinds-- Derek never closed them. That was obvious. He was still proud of his beta for observing it, though.

“I’m going to Ikea,” he said, by way of explanation.

Isaac’s eyebrow notched up a little higher, but he didn’t say anything.

Derek scratched the back of his neck. “Ikea sucks.”

Isaac nodded sagely. “Even Stiles’ real name is easier to pronounce then some of that shit.”

And _fuck,_ Derek knew there was a reason that he liked this kid.

He threw up his hands in agreement. “What the hell even is an armoire?”

Isaac smiled, shaking his head, and looked like he was about to add something else-- but he drew himself up short, pressing his lips together awkwardly.

Derek tried to pretend that his chest didn’t feel emptier at the loss.

Isaac cleared his throat. The air between them was suddenly charged again, cautiously hopeful but all the more awkward for it. This was exactly the kind of thing that Derek was terrible at, and he didn’t suppose that his beta was much better, from what he’d seen. So, pretty much a stand-off.

“Well,” Isaac broke the silence. “You said that you had a problem with- when there could be danger.”

He watched Derek nod, then copied the movement stiffly, drawing a hand up to swipe down one cheek as if subconsciously re-emphasizing what Derek was meant to be evaluating. “Well. Being that this is not exactly… socially accepted, and all, it draws attention. It could put me in danger. At least me.”

Derek shook his head. “It won’t.”

Isaac tilted his, assessing. Derek did his best to look reassuring—he meant it, after all. How could he not?

He still vividly remembered the sickening, gut-heavy fear that he’d felt the first time he told his mom how he felt about guys. How he’d prayed in his room every night leading up to it, asking someone he didn’t entirely believe in even then to let her be okay with it, to let her be happy for him, even. He remembered his strange, reluctant relief when she hadn’t told him to hide it _, for his own protection_ , the way that Kate had. He remembered being grateful. Because he knew, he _knew_ the danger that being bisexual put him in, and he hadn’t wanted that warning. Not from her.

He’d only wanted her pride.

Besides, he had to admire how up-front and brave Isaac was being. He wasn’t holding anything back. He wanted Derek’s full approval, which made the alpha part of him want to puff up his chest like some sort of ridiculous peacock, even though the timing for back-patting couldn’t be worse.

Still. Instinct told Derek that there was more going on here than respect for his alpha-status. 

Isaac was giving him every possible chance to reject him, which was-- well, it was ridiculous, but he understood, so. He swallowed down his sympathy. Isaac didn’t need it.

He did make a mental note to add “vanity table” to his list of things to inquire about at Ikea, though.

“It won’t?” Isaac asked. His tongue flicked out to lick at his bitten lower lip. “Why- uh, why not?”

“Because.” Derek let loose a touch of one of his infamous, supposedly terrifying smiles. “Because I will _personally_ rip out the throat of anyone who so much as _threatens_ you any harm, just because you were brave enough to be yourself.  With my teeth.”

It would be his goddamn pleasure as an alpha, to be honest.

He stepped forward for a hug as Isaac smiled, eagerly enveloping the vibration of his betas cautious laughter and the grassy, burnt-sugar smell of relief. When Isaac didn’t seem to mind or pull back, Derek lifted a hand to pet at his hair and closed his eyes again, breathing him in.

He’d talk to him.

He’d do whatever it took. And he’d figure out what it meant to _him_ to be non-binary. Derek was pretty sure that there were pronouns involved, for some people, and maybe different names or other considerations. He’d find out.

He might even ask Stiles, after the furniture mess died-down. Isaac deserved that much.

“Okay, man-crusher, settle down.” Isaac’s laugh was muffled tightly into his shoulder, but still beautiful. When it petered out and the laughter stopped, Isaac fell quiet; that was just as beautiful, as he breathed in Derek’s smell in turn.

Derek had missed this. A lot. Missed the quiet that was more than quiet, the kind that only family could provide.

But, like an idiot, he used the moment of blissful silence not to enjoy Isaac’s closeness but to realize that he hadn’t put the damn spatula back in the spoon-rest, _because he was an idiot_ , and he prayed that Boyd wouldn’t come downstairs before his hug with Isaac was over and see it lying sloppily on the stove (like an idiot).

No way was he letting go before he had to, though. Not even for that. He’d risk it.

Isaac shifted in his arms but made no move to pull away. “I want you to know,” he muttered, “that I’m- that I’m grateful.”    
  
Then louder, “Even if you are crushing my bones in your giant beefy arms right now.”

His scent turned joyful and mischievous as he nudged Derek with an elbow, undercut with the base smell of warm, and calm. _Safe_. “I just- Yeah. Thank you, Derek.”

“Of course.”

_Always._

He couldn’t help but look past Isaac, at the window in the living room behind him. At the sun, shining through the window, hot and hazy and hopeful.

Derek took a deep breath in through nose.

Maybe his day wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

\-----

(He did buy a vanity table that day. And _only_ a vanity table, despite spending what he could have sworn was at least eight solid hours in that microcosm of too-complicated-to-possibly-be-actual-Swedish hell.

Isaac’s blinding smile when he dumped it unceremoniously on the floor of his room with a terse “you need the practice,” and even more terse “you’re welcome,” before growling his way out the door and into his own bed was more than worth it, though.

Also worth the smug looks, and name jokes, and _inconceivable_ amount of puns that Stiles had bombarded him with when he finally caved and went with him first to Ikea, and then to Home Depot. Because Boyd loved the new ridiculously-yellow spatula that Stiles had noticed Derek noticing and insisted he buy, and Erika told him she’d never leave the new couch again at risk of ultimate betrayal to her happy butt. 

So. Not bad.

Even Stiles liked the new furniture, and he came around more often than he used to, too, claiming that Derek’s house was more comfortable than his own-- even when Derek didn’t ask for an explanation-- which Derek only pretended to complain about.

Isaac’s makeup game did improve, thanks to the table (Derek liked to think, anyways). He--and it was _he_ , Derek checked-- rarely wore it, but after a time the only way that Derek could predict he was going to wear it that day was by the smell of the product, not by Isaac’s rabbit-fast heartbeat, which had finally settled down after the gang had gone to Pride together.

Isaac also smiled more now, which made him pretty proud. Even though he suspected it had very little to do with him and much more to do with what Isaac had started for all of them. 

They all smiled more, truth-be-told. Even Derek.

(He did still throw the _occasional_ lamp out of the car window, but he hadn’t closed the blinds in the morning again since that day. He liked the way that the light shone across the tops of Isaac’s glittery-gold cheekbones when he laughed. It reminded him of Laura, and of family, and now of home.  His home. With his pack).

Derek was pretty fucking proud).

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone is having a safe and happy Pride month *sets off sparklers*
> 
> HMU at @wewalkadifferentpath on tumblr or @adifferentpath on twitter. 
> 
> Comments and kudos feed my soul, but like I said, criticism is welcome too.


End file.
